Songcatcher
Stud Muffin
- Joined
- Jul 25, 2002
- Posts
- 25,989
I didn't read it, Scarlett.
I'm going to try something... stand back.
- Thread starter Riven___Caulfield
- Start date
angelicminx
Loving the monkey!
- Joined
- Feb 7, 2005
- Posts
- 3,490
I LOVE this story, please continue writing it! Seems an eternity since a story has so completely captured my attention!
Riven___Caulfield
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Sep 17, 2001
- Posts
- 273
Dear angelicminx,
you're lying. It's... bah.
Yours sincerely,
-Riv
you're lying. It's... bah. Yours sincerely,
-Riv
Riven___Caulfield
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Sep 17, 2001
- Posts
- 273
...fine.
*
*
*
morning
The bus was on time, but I’m seething. Moderate sleep deprivation aside, I can’t remember the last time I felt so… so…
Violent. That’s the word. I’m staring out this frosted window at the city, but I’m seeing Sarah’s face. I don’t wanna’ be staring out this window – I wanna’ be smashing my head into it. Through it.
I can see myself wiping the blood off my face in the elevator as it ascends to the office. Picking slivers of glass out of my hair.
For God’s sake, Torrence’d say, make yourself presentable!
“…that’s far too much rouge,” I mutter to myself, letting my nose touch the freezing pane – and my mouth stretches into a grin. I won’t smash this window with my forehead. I won’t get to work late. I won’t give Torrence or Phelps or McKay any attitude. I’ll smile and hop-to and hope they give me a decent reference.
…and forget about yesterday? I ask myself.
A huff of doubt spits past my lips. Not bloody likely.
A litlle thing, he’d said. She sure is a pretty little thing.
I start scratching lines of frost off the window with the nail of my index. …why had that pissed me off so much? Torrence’s voice had buzzed onto the cheap little ‘com: “Miss Vorhees, we’ll have that coffee, now.” The pot wasn’t done brewing, so I placed my cup beneath the drops and poured four cups.
They went on the silver tray (garage sale, Torrence boasted – seventy-five cents) with the bowl of sugar, and I pulled the little milk pitcher out of the tiny ‘fridge. Then I went into the office. Phelps and McKay had just arrived, and as I began to place the mugs Phelps pushed a video cassette at me, and told me to stick it in the VCR. An old ad to show our high caliber, no doubt.
“She sure is a pretty little thing”, the Potential Client had said. Torrence had laughed, but I just froze, lookin’ at my big open eyes in the black reflection of the TV. I’d bent over, this prick had checked me out and… …a thing?
“Yeah, but don’t trust her coffee,” Phelps cracked. Torrence liked that one too, but McKay didn’t lose his usual frown. I liked him extra for that. For a whole two seconds I thought he might open his mouth and redirect the conversation. Save me some humiliation. Would anyone tell this guy that was wholly – I – augh!
Nope. They wait for me to leave, and as I close the door behind me, two things sort of happened at once. I saw my mug, melted into an unrecognizable plastic quazimodo bowl on the coffee maker, and I heard the Potential Client get one last shot in:
“You ever tap that?”
One of my eyes had twitched.
The frost on the window has been cut into nine semistraight vertical lines. I start scritching madly at it, letting a dust of ice settle onto my coat. Yeah, I coulda’ handled that better. I wouldn’t have to go job hunting. Maybe I wouldn’t be so goddamn angry right now.
I wouldn’t see Sarah’s face, tellin’ me to calm down. ‘Calm down’ – fuck you! You’re calm as the goddamn ocean now, ain’t’cha Sarah?…sweetness an’ lite… maybe I wouldn’t see the other face… his face… Him!
“Ow!” the guy sitting in front of me cries out, and I realize I’d punched his seat. He’s turned around, staring at me like he’d been shot. “What the hell?”
“Sorry!” I balk. “Sorry, I just, I - it was a…”
He changes seats. I go back to scratching my window.
Calm down, Becca.
The lines of frost I’ve cleared away are beginning to glaze over again.
It’s okay, Becca.
My eyes are glazing too.
Was nothin’ you could do.
Now I’m crying. It starts softly – just welling up. I think it’ll stop at first, but all these memories start hitting me. All these feelings, and tears are streaming down my cheeks. My makeup is fucked.
Presentable.
Hah. But the tears don’t stop. They get worse, and I start sobbing into my arms.
“Hey…” a hand touches my shoulder. It’s the guy I punched, and he says, “it’s not a huge deal, it just really hurt, eh?”
That breaks it for me. I laugh – I laugh and sputter and wipe my face and thank him. Nice of him to be concerned. Nice of him to forgive so quick. Maybe if I cried for Torrence he’d give me my job back.
Not bloody likely.
Not like I’d ever give him or Phelps the satisfaction of seeing me so…
“Weak,” I tell myself. But in my mind, Sarah has an argument for that:
Can’t show the enemy weakness, right?
“Art of War,” I nod.
What makes them enemies?
I got no answer for that one.
Why do you hate them?
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Why?
Why do you hate you?
It’s not just me. And it’s not just the guys at the office. And it’s not just this Goddamn Winnipeg weather, I tell myself with gritting teeth. I hate.
I hate
everything…
Wasn’t always this way.
No, but people change. They grow up. They get nine-to-five jobs and start taking care of other, tiny people. Life starts stepping on people, and you’re lucky if you get through it without a few treadmarks on your face. That’s what’s pissed me off – that’s what keeps me in this state of constant fury.
Life.
Life is what happens when you’re making other plans, John Lennon had said. ‘Course that was before he got shot – life blasted out of a barrel and tore right through him, and made its own plans all over his hippy clothes
I hate John Lennon too. I smile at that. It’s funny to me, but I couldn’t tell you why.
I hate. I’m a hater. The acceptance speech for Hater of the Year at the Playa Hater’s Ball…
“I hate you, I hate you, I don’t even you know and I hate your guts. I hope all the bad things in life happen to you and only you…”
I’m not going to calm down. If everything that’s happened is anyone’s fault, I can only be certain it sure as Hell ain’t mine.
*
*
*
I slip into the lobby of our office. Old Security Guy must have the day off – a Young Security Guy is in his place, and he looks me up and down with an amused eye and smiles.
I shoot him a scowl in return, but he says,
“You wanna’ use the washroom?”
My mouth opens. Wh – what? How could he know? How could he-
“Your makup - it’s kinda’…”
“Oh!” I’d forgotten. “Oh… yes, thank you. Thank you.”
The Security Guard officially lets me into the washroom, and I lock the door behind me. White knuckles grip the off-white porcelain sink and I flip my head up and stare. God, I look like shit.
*
*
*
I pull my keys out as I walk down the hall, and slip them into the lock. But there’s no resistance – the door swings open, and I find Torrence is already here. He doesn’t acknowledge me, but keeps his eye on the blue collar guy on his knees in the doorway to his office. He’s replacing the hinges.
I kneel too, and pick a sliver of wood out of the carpet that the cleaners missed.
“I…” but nothing else comes out.
“Coffee,” Torrence says.
All I can do is nod, and walk behind my desk to get the can and filters. Coffee is made in thirty seconds, and now patience must be exercised for the percolations. The repair guy tells Torrence he can have a new door in here by two this afternoon, which the boss says is fine. Then Torrence goes through the empty doorframe into his office, and I hear his chair creak as he sits down.
The coffee percolates behind me, and I reach into my purse to slip out a folded silk square. Carefully, I unfold it, strangely worried it could splinter and crack like a piece of parchment – like that door. I’d washed it last night – it’s clean now and snot-free, and I run my fingertips across its surface.
The office is silent, save for steaming percolations.
*
*
*
Ten fifty-two A.M. Phelps and McKay haven’t shown up let - no doubt sleeping off the hangovers they procured from a night of lamentations – and Torrence calls me into his office. I step over the doorframe and stand in the corner, waiting for his attention.
He doesn’t give it. He’s looking into his coffee cup and frowning.
“How fast can you type, Vorhees?”
“Eighty-five word per minute.”
“…you have any idea how few secretaries can do that?”
“Um…”
“They’re usually in government positions. Legal clerics or court stenographers. …you know how hard it’s gonna’ be for me to find a girl who can keep up with your work?”
“I…”
“It’ll be a bitch, is what it’ll be. It’ll be pert-near impossible.”
“Yes Sir.”
“And it’s not like this place can be without someone in your position…”
He still hasn’t looked at me, but apparently he didn’t find The Answers in his coffee – now he’s looking for them out the window. In the snow blowing past.
“…if we had a five-day period without you, it’d put us two weeks behind, you know that?”
He’s never been this nice to me before. Ever. Not even in my first interview.
“I didn’t know that, Sir.”
“Well it’s the case. We could get some temp in here who doesn’t know your files and just wants her cheque, but… you’re part of the family around here, Vorhees. The coffee’s better today, by the way.”
That’s what he actually said. Family.
“You didn’t ask for it early today, Sir.”
“Early?”
“Yes Sir. Every day you tell me to make coffee, and ask for it to be brought to you before it’s done being made. …so you end up with fairly strong coffee.”
“Every day?”
“For months.”
“And this is…?”
“Coffee with the benefit of time.”
He takes a sip.
“S’good,” he smiles.
“Am I… still fired, Sir?”
“Why did you do that?”
“What he said, Sir, it was-“
“I don’t care if a client grabs your tit and twists, you don’t assault him.”
At the word assault, the act flashes across my mind. A spray of splintered wood skittering across the conference table – the Potential Client’s head snapping up with wide eyes before I nail him with a Middle Spin Kick square in the center of his chest. As he goes flying and falling back, the chair tumbles out from under him, and when he next opens his eyes he sees me hovering over him, standing on his chest with one foot.
Tap tap, motherfucker!
“Yes Sir. I’ve been under a great deal of stress-“
“This was an isolated incident?”
“Yes Sir.”
“This’ll never happen again.”
“Never.”
“I had to fire you yesterday. Had to.”
“Yes Sir.”
“You’re rehired, alright? But your benefits are gone for three months.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s good coffee,” he mutters. “Now get on the phone – I want to know where the boys are.”
“They’ll be in around two.”
“They called in?”
“No, but after a night like last night..?”
“Right. Goddamned fall-over drunks, the pair of ‘em – I’ve got a staff of drunks and brawlers!”
“Haha!” It comes out, and I almost clap my hands over my mouth. Torrence had made a joke, and it was halfway decent. He allows himself a smile, and looks down to his desk.
“Then I want to see the ads for Triscan, please.”
“The one with the-“
“All of them.”
I nod.
“Sir.”
*
*
*
As predicted, The Boys wandered in shortly after two, both requesting Tylenols with their coffee. They kept to their own offices for most of the day, but wandered in and out of Torrence’s from time to time as I sat at my desk and watched the seconds tick away.
Part of the family, eh? …never heard that one before. What will Charlie say when I tell her that?
When? ‘If’ is more like it. She doesn’t need to know I got fired and rehired. She’d have a lecture for me – cripes, who wouldn’t? I’m just…
“Lucky Burke isn’t pressing charges,” Phelps drawls, leaning on Torrence’s empty doorframe. The new door still hasn’t shown up. “I would.”
“Burke?” …but as soon as I ask, I’m able to fill in the blanks myself. “Oh – yes.” I sound like a moron.
“Did you even think about it before you-“
“Ted,” a low murmur comes from Torrence’s office. “That’s enough.”
Ted Phelps Mr. Vice President of Big Ideas and Bad Ties stands there with his mouth hanging – still forming the syllable he never got through. My mouth’s open too, and slowly he nods to himself and stalks over to his office.
*
*
*
*
*
*
morning
The bus was on time, but I’m seething. Moderate sleep deprivation aside, I can’t remember the last time I felt so… so…
Violent. That’s the word. I’m staring out this frosted window at the city, but I’m seeing Sarah’s face. I don’t wanna’ be staring out this window – I wanna’ be smashing my head into it. Through it.
I can see myself wiping the blood off my face in the elevator as it ascends to the office. Picking slivers of glass out of my hair.
For God’s sake, Torrence’d say, make yourself presentable!
“…that’s far too much rouge,” I mutter to myself, letting my nose touch the freezing pane – and my mouth stretches into a grin. I won’t smash this window with my forehead. I won’t get to work late. I won’t give Torrence or Phelps or McKay any attitude. I’ll smile and hop-to and hope they give me a decent reference.
…and forget about yesterday? I ask myself.
A huff of doubt spits past my lips. Not bloody likely.
A litlle thing, he’d said. She sure is a pretty little thing.
I start scratching lines of frost off the window with the nail of my index. …why had that pissed me off so much? Torrence’s voice had buzzed onto the cheap little ‘com: “Miss Vorhees, we’ll have that coffee, now.” The pot wasn’t done brewing, so I placed my cup beneath the drops and poured four cups.
They went on the silver tray (garage sale, Torrence boasted – seventy-five cents) with the bowl of sugar, and I pulled the little milk pitcher out of the tiny ‘fridge. Then I went into the office. Phelps and McKay had just arrived, and as I began to place the mugs Phelps pushed a video cassette at me, and told me to stick it in the VCR. An old ad to show our high caliber, no doubt.
“She sure is a pretty little thing”, the Potential Client had said. Torrence had laughed, but I just froze, lookin’ at my big open eyes in the black reflection of the TV. I’d bent over, this prick had checked me out and… …a thing?
“Yeah, but don’t trust her coffee,” Phelps cracked. Torrence liked that one too, but McKay didn’t lose his usual frown. I liked him extra for that. For a whole two seconds I thought he might open his mouth and redirect the conversation. Save me some humiliation. Would anyone tell this guy that was wholly – I – augh!
Nope. They wait for me to leave, and as I close the door behind me, two things sort of happened at once. I saw my mug, melted into an unrecognizable plastic quazimodo bowl on the coffee maker, and I heard the Potential Client get one last shot in:
“You ever tap that?”
One of my eyes had twitched.
The frost on the window has been cut into nine semistraight vertical lines. I start scritching madly at it, letting a dust of ice settle onto my coat. Yeah, I coulda’ handled that better. I wouldn’t have to go job hunting. Maybe I wouldn’t be so goddamn angry right now.
I wouldn’t see Sarah’s face, tellin’ me to calm down. ‘Calm down’ – fuck you! You’re calm as the goddamn ocean now, ain’t’cha Sarah?…sweetness an’ lite… maybe I wouldn’t see the other face… his face… Him!
“Ow!” the guy sitting in front of me cries out, and I realize I’d punched his seat. He’s turned around, staring at me like he’d been shot. “What the hell?”
“Sorry!” I balk. “Sorry, I just, I - it was a…”
He changes seats. I go back to scratching my window.
Calm down, Becca.
The lines of frost I’ve cleared away are beginning to glaze over again.
It’s okay, Becca.
My eyes are glazing too.
Was nothin’ you could do.
Now I’m crying. It starts softly – just welling up. I think it’ll stop at first, but all these memories start hitting me. All these feelings, and tears are streaming down my cheeks. My makeup is fucked.
Presentable.
Hah. But the tears don’t stop. They get worse, and I start sobbing into my arms.
“Hey…” a hand touches my shoulder. It’s the guy I punched, and he says, “it’s not a huge deal, it just really hurt, eh?”
That breaks it for me. I laugh – I laugh and sputter and wipe my face and thank him. Nice of him to be concerned. Nice of him to forgive so quick. Maybe if I cried for Torrence he’d give me my job back.
Not bloody likely.
Not like I’d ever give him or Phelps the satisfaction of seeing me so…
“Weak,” I tell myself. But in my mind, Sarah has an argument for that:
Can’t show the enemy weakness, right?
“Art of War,” I nod.
What makes them enemies?
I got no answer for that one.
Why do you hate them?
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Why?
Why do you hate you?
It’s not just me. And it’s not just the guys at the office. And it’s not just this Goddamn Winnipeg weather, I tell myself with gritting teeth. I hate.
I hate
everything…
Wasn’t always this way.
No, but people change. They grow up. They get nine-to-five jobs and start taking care of other, tiny people. Life starts stepping on people, and you’re lucky if you get through it without a few treadmarks on your face. That’s what’s pissed me off – that’s what keeps me in this state of constant fury.
Life.
Life is what happens when you’re making other plans, John Lennon had said. ‘Course that was before he got shot – life blasted out of a barrel and tore right through him, and made its own plans all over his hippy clothes
I hate John Lennon too. I smile at that. It’s funny to me, but I couldn’t tell you why.
I hate. I’m a hater. The acceptance speech for Hater of the Year at the Playa Hater’s Ball…
“I hate you, I hate you, I don’t even you know and I hate your guts. I hope all the bad things in life happen to you and only you…”
I’m not going to calm down. If everything that’s happened is anyone’s fault, I can only be certain it sure as Hell ain’t mine.
*
*
*
I slip into the lobby of our office. Old Security Guy must have the day off – a Young Security Guy is in his place, and he looks me up and down with an amused eye and smiles.
I shoot him a scowl in return, but he says,
“You wanna’ use the washroom?”
My mouth opens. Wh – what? How could he know? How could he-
“Your makup - it’s kinda’…”
“Oh!” I’d forgotten. “Oh… yes, thank you. Thank you.”
The Security Guard officially lets me into the washroom, and I lock the door behind me. White knuckles grip the off-white porcelain sink and I flip my head up and stare. God, I look like shit.
*
*
*
I pull my keys out as I walk down the hall, and slip them into the lock. But there’s no resistance – the door swings open, and I find Torrence is already here. He doesn’t acknowledge me, but keeps his eye on the blue collar guy on his knees in the doorway to his office. He’s replacing the hinges.
I kneel too, and pick a sliver of wood out of the carpet that the cleaners missed.
“I…” but nothing else comes out.
“Coffee,” Torrence says.
All I can do is nod, and walk behind my desk to get the can and filters. Coffee is made in thirty seconds, and now patience must be exercised for the percolations. The repair guy tells Torrence he can have a new door in here by two this afternoon, which the boss says is fine. Then Torrence goes through the empty doorframe into his office, and I hear his chair creak as he sits down.
The coffee percolates behind me, and I reach into my purse to slip out a folded silk square. Carefully, I unfold it, strangely worried it could splinter and crack like a piece of parchment – like that door. I’d washed it last night – it’s clean now and snot-free, and I run my fingertips across its surface.
The office is silent, save for steaming percolations.
*
*
*
Ten fifty-two A.M. Phelps and McKay haven’t shown up let - no doubt sleeping off the hangovers they procured from a night of lamentations – and Torrence calls me into his office. I step over the doorframe and stand in the corner, waiting for his attention.
He doesn’t give it. He’s looking into his coffee cup and frowning.
“How fast can you type, Vorhees?”
“Eighty-five word per minute.”
“…you have any idea how few secretaries can do that?”
“Um…”
“They’re usually in government positions. Legal clerics or court stenographers. …you know how hard it’s gonna’ be for me to find a girl who can keep up with your work?”
“I…”
“It’ll be a bitch, is what it’ll be. It’ll be pert-near impossible.”
“Yes Sir.”
“And it’s not like this place can be without someone in your position…”
He still hasn’t looked at me, but apparently he didn’t find The Answers in his coffee – now he’s looking for them out the window. In the snow blowing past.
“…if we had a five-day period without you, it’d put us two weeks behind, you know that?”
He’s never been this nice to me before. Ever. Not even in my first interview.
“I didn’t know that, Sir.”
“Well it’s the case. We could get some temp in here who doesn’t know your files and just wants her cheque, but… you’re part of the family around here, Vorhees. The coffee’s better today, by the way.”
That’s what he actually said. Family.
“You didn’t ask for it early today, Sir.”
“Early?”
“Yes Sir. Every day you tell me to make coffee, and ask for it to be brought to you before it’s done being made. …so you end up with fairly strong coffee.”
“Every day?”
“For months.”
“And this is…?”
“Coffee with the benefit of time.”
He takes a sip.
“S’good,” he smiles.
“Am I… still fired, Sir?”
“Why did you do that?”
“What he said, Sir, it was-“
“I don’t care if a client grabs your tit and twists, you don’t assault him.”
At the word assault, the act flashes across my mind. A spray of splintered wood skittering across the conference table – the Potential Client’s head snapping up with wide eyes before I nail him with a Middle Spin Kick square in the center of his chest. As he goes flying and falling back, the chair tumbles out from under him, and when he next opens his eyes he sees me hovering over him, standing on his chest with one foot.
Tap tap, motherfucker!
“Yes Sir. I’ve been under a great deal of stress-“
“This was an isolated incident?”
“Yes Sir.”
“This’ll never happen again.”
“Never.”
“I had to fire you yesterday. Had to.”
“Yes Sir.”
“You’re rehired, alright? But your benefits are gone for three months.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s good coffee,” he mutters. “Now get on the phone – I want to know where the boys are.”
“They’ll be in around two.”
“They called in?”
“No, but after a night like last night..?”
“Right. Goddamned fall-over drunks, the pair of ‘em – I’ve got a staff of drunks and brawlers!”
“Haha!” It comes out, and I almost clap my hands over my mouth. Torrence had made a joke, and it was halfway decent. He allows himself a smile, and looks down to his desk.
“Then I want to see the ads for Triscan, please.”
“The one with the-“
“All of them.”
I nod.
“Sir.”
*
*
*
As predicted, The Boys wandered in shortly after two, both requesting Tylenols with their coffee. They kept to their own offices for most of the day, but wandered in and out of Torrence’s from time to time as I sat at my desk and watched the seconds tick away.
Part of the family, eh? …never heard that one before. What will Charlie say when I tell her that?
When? ‘If’ is more like it. She doesn’t need to know I got fired and rehired. She’d have a lecture for me – cripes, who wouldn’t? I’m just…
“Lucky Burke isn’t pressing charges,” Phelps drawls, leaning on Torrence’s empty doorframe. The new door still hasn’t shown up. “I would.”
“Burke?” …but as soon as I ask, I’m able to fill in the blanks myself. “Oh – yes.” I sound like a moron.
“Did you even think about it before you-“
“Ted,” a low murmur comes from Torrence’s office. “That’s enough.”
Ted Phelps Mr. Vice President of Big Ideas and Bad Ties stands there with his mouth hanging – still forming the syllable he never got through. My mouth’s open too, and slowly he nods to himself and stalks over to his office.
*
*
*
angelicminx
Loving the monkey!
- Joined
- Feb 7, 2005
- Posts
- 3,490
LOL Riv!
Lying is pointless.
If you think this is Bah then I want to see other things you have written!
Thank you for continuing the story love, waiting semi patiently for the next installment.
Lying is pointless.
If you think this is Bah then I want to see other things you have written!
Thank you for continuing the story love, waiting semi patiently for the next installment.
angelicminx
Loving the monkey!
- Joined
- Feb 7, 2005
- Posts
- 3,490
Still waiting Riv... but I thought I would post again and let you know I have finally submitted a couple. They are first efforts so be kind...
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